


in any possible universe

by softestpunk



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Assassin!Haytham, Edward Lives, Haytham is soft and also an adorable dork, M/M, Shay is Shay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: Haytham Kenway is the gilded son of one of the Brotherhood's most famous Assassins, Shay Cormac is sent to London as a representative from the Colonies.As in any possible universe, they click instantly.
Relationships: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway
Comments: 80
Kudos: 153





	1. Haytham

“The gentleman you’ve been expecting has arrived early, sir. What should we tell him?”

I look up at Bellowes between sentences, considering my options. I had not expected my new contact from the Colonial Brotherhood until the afternoon, but he is one of us, and his journey has been long—he is bound to be exhausted, and I bear him no ill-will, so it seems unwelcoming to make him wait.

He is, after all, a brother-in-arms.

“Show him in and send for tea, I think,” I decide, dropping my quill into the ink pot and sitting back. This correspondence is nothing sensitive, and besides, I am assured Shay Cormac is entirely trustworthy—and while I have never met any of my Colonial counterparts in person, I plan to accept this unless I see something that contradicts it.

Adéwalé himself reports that Cormac is the most competent of the Colonials, and I am inclined to take him at his word as I would my own father.

Bellowes nods and backs out of the room, giving me a moment to peer through the window at the clouds outside, the greyish sky making the oaks in the square look dull and lifeless. A shame that Master Cormac’s first impression of London should be on such a dreary day, although this does at least have the advantage of offering him an accurate one.

I have often wondered what the Colonies are like, though I suspect it would make me look outright unprofessional to badger Master Cormac with questions like an excited schoolboy.

Perhaps I can devise an excuse to return with him. I’m sure I can make myself very concerned about some detail or other, concerned enough that my personal attention would be warranted to check on it.

A moment later the loose board at the top of the stairs creaks, then there is a pause, and another creak, and then another, as though it is being tested.

This must be Master Cormac. That is the instinct of an Assassin.

A knock on the door, the rest of the approach made in perfect silence.

“Come,” I call out, smoothing my waistcoat and hurriedly fastening the undone button at the bottom so as not to seem half-dressed in front of a stranger.

After a split-second of internal debate I decide to remain seated. In my father’s absence, I am the master of this house, and he would not greet a subordinate standing unless they were already a close friend.

Yes. Sitting is correct.

The door squeals on its hinges as it opens—a security measure I have gone to great lengths not to have repaired—and a man in a dark oilskin of the kind favoured by sailors slips through it, closing it behind him and revealing long, dark, glossy hair tied neatly at his nape, with just the barest hint of red to it.

He turns to reveal equally dark eyes, almost black, a strong brow with a scar through it that ages his otherwise young face but does nothing to detract from his outright breathtaking handsomeness.

I realise when he clears his elegant, pale throat that I have been staring in silence for significantly longer than is socially acceptable.

“Shay Cormac, sir,” he bows, though not so deeply as he might have. “At your service.”

My throat is suddenly tight, and I am forced to swallow with some difficulty.

I force myself not to say _your accent is very charming_ , and instead clear my own throat.

“Forgive me, I was miles away,” I say, aiming at an air of aloofness and hoping desperately that I haven’t oversold it.

“Nothing to forgive, sir,” Cormac says, smiling a bright, easy smile that I have no doubt has been the ruin of countless young women.

“Right, well… please, take a seat Master Cormac,” I say, gesturing at the twin chairs on the other side of my desk.

Cormac, naturally, takes the slightly closer one.

From here, I can smell the sea air on him, salt and greasy fog, the scent of the docks in the morning.

My mind skips over the thought of offering to have a bath drawn for him to the thought of him stretched out in front of the fire, cleansing long limbs with unhurried grace.

I push the image aside, but already know that I will be haunted by it later.

Tea arrives just in time to rescue me, and I have never been more grateful for a strong cup of morning blend in my entire life.

Shay pours with nimble fingers and takes his tea without sugar, making a happy sound as he sips it and pausing to breathe in the aroma, glancing up at me with the faintest hint of pink in his cheeks as I shamelessly add two lumps and a measure of milk to my own cup.

I am still searching for a delicate way to point out that we can more than afford the sugar—and the tea—when I realise I have fallen into another unacceptably long silence.

“I trust your journey was uneventful?” I ask, for want of a better opening question.

“Aye, sir,” Cormac agrees. “Adéwalé is a fine captain, sir, and his ship runs smooth as silk.”

“I shall take your word for it,” I say. “He speaks equally highly of you.”

“Ah, that explains it,” Cormac says, settling back in his chair, getting comfortable now.

“Explains what?” I ask.

“Why I’m here, sir,” he says. “I doubted Achilles would’ve recommended me for anything other than scrubbin’ floors.”

This makes me raise an eyebrow quite involuntarily.

“He calls me lazy, sir,” Cormac says, though if he is ashamed of this, it’s well-hidden.

“Ah, well, I think it is always wise to study the methods of lazy men,” I say, quite sincerely. “Because they tend not to waste their efforts.”

Shay brightens at this, obviously pleased, and a thrill of _want_ coils up in my belly.

I tamp down on it viciously. This man is a stranger to me, I know practically nothing of him and especially nothing of his inclinations, and besides, he is here in a perfectly professional capacity.

And yet.

“Very kind of you, sir,” Cormac says.

“I am not given to kindness, Master Cormac,” I respond, and then fear that I am being unduly cold in an attempt to hide the warmth still glowing steadily like the embers of an untended fire prodded by an iron.

“If it’s all the same, sir, I’d prefer it if you called me Shay,” he says, obviously gaining confidence.

This sudden extension of intimacy comes unexpectedly, but then things are very different in the Colonies, aren’t they? I oughtn’t read too much into it—to Shay, this is likely far less intimate a gesture than it would be to me.

Perhaps, for the sake of relations with our Colonial brethren, I ought to extend the offer in return.

“Then I think you ought to call me Haytham,” I say, before I can think better of it.

Shay’s eyes glitter as if I’ve offered him the greatest treasure he can imagine, and I do not understand why.

“That’s very kind of you,” he says. “Given to kindness or not.”

I do not like feeling as though a person can see right through me, although something about Shay doing it thrills me down to the marrow of my bones.

“I expect you haven’t had a chance to secure lodgings yet,” I say.

“Not yet,” Shay agrees. “Thought I’d best announce myself first.”

“Quite right,” I say, preening at the show of deference—even though it is a _show_ rather than a genuine feeling. “And I think it would be most convenient for everyone if you remained here. There’s plenty of room.”

That image of Shay bathing roars back, only now it is accompanied by the creak of door hinges and Shay looking in the direction of the noise, eyes widening and then softening, a sly smile spreading over his pretty, full lips.

I push it away again, but I know I have not seen the last of it.

“That’s a very generous offer,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to impose...”

“It will be no imposition at all,” I insist.

It is exactly what my father would expect me to do, but I still feel the thrill of the forbidden at encouraging Shay to stay. My motivations, I am already aware, are not pure hospitality.

“Then I’ll thank you very kindly… Haytham,” Shay nods after a pause, and I cannot help enjoying the way my name sounds rolling off his tongue.

“In that case, I’ll let you settle in once you’ve finished your tea,” I continue. “No rush, please take your time, and if there’s anything you need you will find the staff both helpful and discreet. You need not go to extraordinary lengths to hide anything about your business here, they have all been hand-chosen and are quite accustomed to strangeness.”

Shay smiles at this. “Things are very different in London,” he says.

This is my opportunity to learn what I wanted to know earlier—though I have by now quite forgotten my curiosity about the Colonies, since it has been replaced almost entirely by curiosity about the man sitting opposite me.

I will have to formulate an excuse to see him in action.

“I would be delighted to hear about the way things are run at the Davenport homestead at some point during your time here,” I say, feeling that this disguises my eagerness nicely.

“I’d be delighted to tell you all about it,” Shay grins at me over the rim of his teacup, dark eyes glittering like the sea at night.

I am aware, distantly, of being in trouble.

***

By the time I am able to pull myself away from urgent correspondence in the afternoon, my father has been home for an hour or so already.

I find him ensconced in the parlour with Shay, the two of them leaning toward each other in their armchairs, laughter ringing between them, father’s hand so close to Shay’s that he might reach out to take it any moment.

A mouthful of bitter envy slides down the back of my throat and settles uncomfortably in my belly. Shay was perfectly amicable toward me, but my company did not draw such open happiness out of him, it did not make him glow with good humour as my father’s company obviously has.

“Haytham!” Father enthuses, barely turning his attention away from a still-smiling Shay to acknowledge me. “Come, pull up a chair.”

There are only the chairs by the card table remaining, but I dutifully retrieve one and pull it up, sorely tempted to position myself between them, but ultimately retreating to my father’s side.

Shay rises instantly, and for a split second I worry that my company is so offensive to him that he is about to make some excuse to leave.

“You sit by the fire here,” he says instead, gesturing at the armchair he’s just vacated. “You look exhausted.”

While I can wholly appreciate Shay’s clearly genuine concern for me, I do not like to think of myself appearing exhausted in front of him. I do not think of myself as an unattractive man, but I am not stunningly beautiful like Shay is, and I would rather be at my best whenever he sees me.

I should have paused to check that I _was_ before coming down.

“I…”

“It’s your home,” Shay says, closing the distance between us and all but pushing me into the armchair. I half-expect him to rush off for a blanket and a measure of brandy—I must look as though I’m about to collapse.

My father, by contrast, looks tanned and healthy and half his age after his recent sojourn to the continent.

I watch Shay flip the chair I brought over around, sitting backward on it like some ruffian in a Cheapside pub, but the effect does not make him seem coarse or vulgar—rather, it gives him the air of carefreeness and adventure I so often see in my own father, when he tells his stories of younger days.

Now Shay is sitting closer to him than he was before, and I am furthest from Shay, and I cannot help but think that they do make a striking pair.

I will _not_ allow myself to be envious of my own father. I will _not_.

No matter how completely he seems to have captivated the attention of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

“I was just telling Shay about my trip,” Father says, looking once again at Shay. “And he was telling me about his. Good of Achilles to send me a sailor.”

Ah. Of course.

I hadn’t thought to ask, but all the clues had been there. Shay’s dress, his manner of speech, the ease with which he made a crossing that others had described as generally hellish, Adéwalé’s good opinion of him. Of _course_ he was a sailor.

I could never hope to compete with my father’s experience, with the stories he could tell.

“You must have nearly endless things to talk about,” I say, half-wishing I had that blanket after all.

“Your father knows how to spin a tale,” Shay says, delight so obvious in his tone that it makes my stomach ache.

I have no claim on him, aside from the dubious one that I saw him first.

My father loves me and would no doubt back off—if he ever intended to do anything in the first place—at my say-so. But that would not change _Shay’s_ feelings, and my impression is that life in the Colonies is hard. Why shouldn’t he take the opportunity to be utterly spoiled by an older man who will show him every kindness? Why should I seek to deny him that, if I have any respect for him at all?

“The difference between me and Haytham, Shay,” Father begins. “Is that I like to brag, and he doesn’t.”

I am pleasantly surprised by this assessment. I had almost expected him to thoroughly remove me from the running with one statement, but instead he has rather paid me a compliment.

“I’ll see if I can get a story or two out of him as well,” Shay says, looking at me as though he has just found an appealing puzzle.

Now I really _do_ wish I had the blanket, since I suddenly feel naked under his gaze.

“Consider it an honour if you do, Shay,” Father advises. “He doesn’t open up to just anyone. You’ll have to win his trust, first.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Shay says.

Father laughs. “How many times? _Edward_ , Shay. Call me Edward.”

Shay smiles a shy smile and nods, dramatic cheekbones going pink along the ridges.

Whether he intended to or not, my father has turned me into a greater object of interest than himself. I am a _challenge_ now, to Shay, and I can see in the speculative look he gives me that he is fond of challenges, that he would like to unravel my secrets and learn them for himself.

I cannot make it _too_ easy for him, lest he lose interest, but I would so dearly like him to unravel me.


	2. Shay

I can’t stop thinking about Haytham Kenway.

No one warned me he’d be like this. Handsome and clever and so put-together, so refined, like no one I’ve ever met before.

I’m half afraid to look at him too much in case he catches on to what I’m thinking about him.

I keep thinking of what his father said, about what it’d take to earn his trust, to have him tell me stories of his life. Edward Kenway is a man I could befriend, he’s so easy to get along with, but Haytham is _different_.

A knock on my window startles me, and I’m surprised to see Haytham waving at me through it. This bedroom is on the second floor, and I noticed on the way in that the house itself wasn’t an easy climb—by design, I thought.

I rush over to the window and open it, but Haytham perches in place, easy as anything, as though he could hang there for hours and never get tired.

I glance at one arm raised above his head and notice then how the muscles strain the fabric of his beautifully-tailored coat.

_Oh_.

“I thought you might appreciate a tour of the city,” Haytham says. “If you think you can keep up.”

The hint of a smile plays around his mouth. I could look at that mouth all day, I could lick my way into it and stroke along his tongue with my own and show him a thing or two I’d bet anything London girls don’t know about.

I don’t have a chance to answer before Haytham raises himself up, climbing toward the roof, all long limbs and surprising grace.

I follow him out the window without a second thought, laughing as I chase him along the roof, harder still as he bows with a flourish and then falls back off the corner, and by the time I reach him he’s brushing leaves off his coat on the ground as though it was nothing at all.

I make the same jump, rolling out of the pile of leaves below in a way that I hope looks just as graceful as he did.

“We have an hour before supper,” Haytham explains.

I’ve already been fed three times since I arrived, and I could get used to it.

“Just enough time to get the lay of the land,” he continues. “So that, should you choose to go exploring on your own, you’ll have no trouble finding your way back.”

I doubt that I’d have trouble finding the Kenway mansion—I barely had to ask directions this morning—but I want to see everything Haytham wants to show me.

When he darts across the darkened square I follow, taking shelter under the same oak and then watching for a moment as he scales another building, cloak swishing behind him like a squirrel’s tail as he climbs.

In his study, I’d never imagined that he might do _any_ field work. I’d taken him to be the gilded son of one of the Brotherhood’s most famous Assassins, educated and polished and perfect, but not the sort of man who could move like this, who blends into a shadow just as easily as he adds milk to his tea.

I can’t help laughing as I chase him along the rooftops, needing all my wits and a little help from that rare second sight that I sometimes think is the only reason Achilles puts up with me.

I know Edward Kenway has it, too, and I wonder about his son. It’s meant to be the sort of thing that gets passed down, isn’t it?

We make leaps and climb walls together, tiptoeing along the roof of a church just to dive off the steeple, and all my senses are lit up, everything I don’t need to keep my balance focused on Haytham, on the way he moves, on his ease in this place he knows so well.

He points the sights out to me—the mansion, from a half-dozen angles, so, as he said, I can find it later. Boarding houses and orphanages and churches, neatly-tended graveyards, theatres and clubs and big private homes of people he and his father know, and we roam far enough toward the centre of the city to see the river—the Thames—glittering in the light, but stay just far enough away to avoid the worst of the smell.

Haytham is proud of his city, and it shows in every word of introduction he gives me to it, and I hang on each one of them.

I’ve always been in the habit of falling hard and fast, and by the time we’re heading back for supper I think I’ve gone and fallen halfway in love with him.

We’re running along a row of houses he tells me are for students at the university when a loose tile I didn’t see gives out under me and I slip, a heart-wrenching moment of free fall and the ground coming up to meet me before I stop just as abruptly.

I look up and see that Haytham’s grabbed my elbow, and I force myself to find somewhere to put my feet so he can help me up.

He tugs on me before I’m ready and I can’t stop us overbalancing, stumbling back until Haytham collides with a chimney and I’m pressed to his chest, panting for breath, heart hammering in my ears.

Haytham’s panting, too, and I think if I focused I’d be able to hear his heartbeat, and I’m _so_ tempted.

He doesn’t make to move right away, and neither do I, and it leaves us both on a rooftop in the dark, bodies pressed against each other, unwilling to meet each other’s eyes but, I think, also unwilling to lose the closeness so soon.

“Thank you,” I say eventually, easing off a finger width or two, making sure to sway so I seem unsteady on my feet from the shock.

It’s a bad play—he’ll know by now that even if I had fallen, I wouldn’t have fallen badly. But he doesn’t correct me, and he doesn’t move, and his hand’s still on my arm, gripping tight as though he really is afraid I’ll slip and fall.

“Don’t mention it,” Haytham manages, that gorgeous rumbling voice and those neatly-trimmed syllables that sound like wealth and privilege and silk breeches curling around me. “How would I _ever_ explain to Achilles that I’d lost you on your first day here?”

“He wouldn’t mind,” I said, and I hadn’t planned to be that blunt or that bitter, but the Kenways have been so kind to me, so pleased with me, so confident in me that I can’t help but feel a little more put out than usual that Achilles doesn’t think much of me, treats me like a nuisance.

Haytham looks at me steadily for a moment, then purses his pretty lips into a hard line. I can see something going on behind those pale eyes, something in the way they reflect the stars above, and I know he’s _scheming_.

But I don’t think he plans to hurt me. I don’t think the thought would ever cross his mind.

“Well, _I_ would mind,” he says eventually, letting go of me. “Come along. You must be starving by now.”

And then he’s off, and all I want to do is follow.


	3. Haytham

Shay eats with such incredible pleasure that I cannot help staring at him and I can only hope that he’s too preoccupied with the frankly stunning spread Cook has put on for the two of us to notice.

He has already befriended the entire household staff, and as we eat in the kitchens like wayward schoolboys being spoiled by a matronly Cook, I cannot help but notice she has all but adopted him as though he were one of her own sons. One of them, I recall a moment later, _is_ a sailor. Shay must seem very familiar to her.

As I watch him lick his fingers, the perverse thought that I rather wish he would lick _my_ fingers comes to the fore and I am momentarily so consumed by it that I cannot bat it away with sufficient speed.

The idea takes root, replacing my apetite wholly in favour of filling me with the unquenchable desire to watch Shay in the simple pleasure of eating well after spending so much energy chasing me around the city.

The thrill of that, too, is still thrumming in my veins and I am struck by the realisation that I will struggle to sleep tonight, exhausted or not.

Shay pauses in his delightfully shameless decimation of our supper to drink his tea, which he still takes black and unsweetened.

If what he says is true, and Achilles does not value him as he so deserves to be valued, then I will keep him. I will keep him in this house, find some excuse to need him always at my right hand, and I will take pleasure in watching him eat and drink and laugh, and I will learn to make him smile as my father does.

“What do you think of London then, Master Cormac?” Cook asks, tidying up after us as Shay clears plate after plate and I try to pretend the really very good cheese and leek tart in front of me is of any interest at all.

“ _Please_ call me Shay,” he insists.

Cook spares me a glance, and I nod to her.

I have had her calling me Haytham for years, and I think she sees me as one of her sons, too—I think she has done since my mother died.

This is by necessity a small household, and we are all quite close. She has seen me bruised, bloodied and broken before now, she understands, if not the precise details of what Father and I do, then at least that we are not merely ordinary gentlemen who go to the theatre or our clubs of an evening.

I am certain she has surmised that Shay is also anything but ordinary.

“Shay, then,” she corrects. “Beautiful name, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Shay lights up at this. I have had the same thought, but did not dare voice it as Cook does.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, beaming brightly. “And London has been good to me so far.”

Cook snorts at this. “She can be a cruel mistress, too. You watch yourself, Shay. These old hands aren’t nearly as steady as they once were, there’s no telling what kind of mess I’d make if I had to stitch you up like I’ve done this one so many times,” she says, nodding to me.

Heat rises to the tips of my ears, but the kitchen is poorly lit, so I imagine my blush will not be so obvious.

“I did nearly take a tumble earlier,” Shay says. “Haytham rescued me like a proper gentleman.”

“Oh, he is a proper gentleman,” Cook enthuses as though I am not in the room. “You should see him all done up and ready to go out. You can work out where he’s been by all the girls clutching their hearts in his wake.”

Now the heat sinks down into my cheeks, and I suspect my blush is not _nearly_ so well-concealed. I have always been annoyed by how easily I blush, too fair-skinned to hide my embarrassment.

I have long dealt with this by simply avoiding embarrassing situations, but I know that I cannot currently escape.

“I don’t doubt it,” Shay says, looking directly at me, his eyes sparkling with silent laughter.

“Oh but they’d swoon after you,” Cook adds to Shay. “With that accent of yours and the way you carry yourself. Oh! Imagine the two of you out together, there wouldn’t be a girl in London left standing.”

Shay laughs, and I blush harder, and this only makes him laugh more as he looks at me, but he is _glowing_ , like he was for Father, and I cannot bring myself to begrudge him his mirth, even if it is at my expense.

“We couldn’t have that, now, could we?” Shay asks, directing his attention toward me.

“I believe Cook is exaggerating,” I say. “At least as regards my own effect on women.”

I could well believe they do literally swoon after Shay, I cannot imagine him being anything but immensely popular. There is such a kindness to him, a warmth, the sense of being completely harmless to anyone unable to defend themselves that I imagine women are very drawn to him, knowing he is entirely safe where so many other men are not.

And he _is_ beautiful. One wink from Shay would have any young woman desperate to call him hers, I am quite certain of it.

But then, it isn’t so simple for men like us to marry, is it?

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Shay says cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ve turned a head or two in your time.”

Yes, well. One or two. There are a number of society matrons who would love to have me for their daughters, especially the younger ones who will not be so well-provided for—but I have had implied offers of titles and social mobility should I be inclined to marry into families who could use the money more than they mind the rumours about my father’s former profession.

And there have been another few young women who, I think, rather _liked_ the rumours of my father’s former profession.

“He’s broken his share of hearts,” Cook says.

“I’ll be careful with my own, then,” Shay murmurs, quiet, and while Cook misses his meaning entirely, I cannot help but catch the wink he throws my way, so quick I might have imagined it, but the lingering, almost shy smile on his lips tells me it was quite real.

I swallow, realising that this new information will require an adjustment of approach.


	4. Shay

Cook, as it turns out, wasn’t exaggerating about the way Haytham turns out when he’s all dressed up. He’s in a deep navy blue, the colour of the ocean at dusk, set off with a cream waistcoat and stockings, details embroidered in gold thread and more lace around his neck than I’ve ever seen in one place before—ladies’ undergarments included.

With a matching tricorne complete with a big flashy white ostrich feather in his hand, he makes such a striking picture that I stop in the doorway and stare for a bit, mesmerised by the silhouette he cuts—tall and strong and masculine, from the polished gold buckles on his shoes to the tip of his nose.

“That’s my father’s suit,” Haytham says as soon as I step into the hall. “I haven’t seen that one in years.”

I grin at him, letting an appreciative look linger over the way his broad shoulders taper down to his narrow waist.

“He tells me he’s gotten a little more solid around the middle since the last time he wore it,” I say. I like Edward Kenway, and if his son doesn’t make an interest clear… well, I wouldn’t be all that disappointed in my second choice.

“Well, it fits you like it might have been _made_ for you,” Haytham says, staring openly. The style’s out of fashion, but with my own waistcoat—deemed acceptable by Edward himself—and new stockings, it’ll do. The fit makes up for it, and the excuse of being from the Colonies ought to hold.

“Will I do, then?” I ask, nudging for a compliment.

“Oh, I think you will _more_ than do,” Haytham says, his voice warming. He was nervous of me yesterday, but I think now we’ve spent enough time in each other’s company to help him relax. “You’ll be fighting off interest all night.”

“Aye, well, that’ll last until they find out I’ve only got a little brig to my name.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find that there are a number of younger daughters who would rather enjoy the the thrill of being courted by a sea captain. Best not to tell them you’ve been privateering for the French, though.”

“I don’t know, I think some of them might like that, too,” I say with a grin, knowing I’m not wrong.

I know women, I _like_ women, but just now I’ve got my heart set on Haytham.

“They probably would,” Haytham allows. “I think I’m safe confessing to you that I do not particularly understand women.”

“I can tell you the secret, if you like,” I offer, stepping closer to him.

“The single secret?” Haytham asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Aye. Just one thing you need to understand.” I head for the front door as I hear the Kenways’ carriage being brought around to the front.

“I am desperately curious,” Haytham says.

“They’re people,” I say, taking the door from the maid holding it and winking at her as she blushes. “All of them. People.”

Haytham laughs, stepping through the door ahead of me as I gesture for him to go.

“Very pretty people, though,” he says as the door swings closed behind him, and a few steps later he’s handing me up into the carriage—a proper gentleman, all over again.

“Aye, well,” I begin, settling myself opposite him, letting my foot brush against one of his. “So are some men.”

***

“Who’s that man?” I ask as we take another turn about the room, my arm threaded through Haytham’s as though I was one of his most intimate friends.

Something tells me I _am_ , despite only knowing him a day. There’s no other Assassins based in London around his age, and even if there were, his father is the Mentor—he’d be set apart from the rest of them even if there were dozens.

“Ah,” Haytham smiles wryly. “That would be Reginald Birch. He was once engaged to my sister.”

I haven’t met Haytham’s sister yet, but I have seen a portrait.

“He must’ve been devastated to lose her,” I say. “She’s beautiful.”

“And terribly clever. Though I think a little old for you,” Haytham says, and while it sounds like a joke there’s a hurt edge to it.

“But I daresay he was more devastated to lose access to my father and the family in general,” Haytham continues before I can think what to say to soothe his ego. “Birch, you see, is one of the top-ranked Templars in London.”

Templars in London.

I suppose it makes sense—it’s a big city, densely populated, there’s room for Assassins _and_ Templars here, it’s not like the Colonies where one group could easily push the other out.

“You needn’t fear him,” Haytham adds, as though he knew I was making a mental map of all the weapons on my person and in the room, checking escape routes, looking for hiding places. “Not here, at any rate, although I’m afraid now that he’s seen you with me, you will be at slightly greater risk. Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.”

“I’ll be fine,” I agree. I can hold my own.

“Mm,” Haytham hums. “You have the sight, don’t you? I suspected, but I couldn’t think quite how to ask.”

“I do,” I admit, since there’s no point hiding it from an ally.

From a _friend_.

Haytham doesn’t read as a threat at all, but my heart’s already marked him out as important. I always know where he is, if he’s near enough to sense.

“And you?” I ask, wanting confirmation.

“Oh yes,” Haytham says. “Father says it’s better than his, though I’m not sure there’s really a way to know, it’s such a varied experience. I must confess to some fascination with the phenomenon.”

“We can play hide and seek later,” I offer, half teasing, half hoping he really will take me up on it.

“Perhaps we can. It might prove very instructive.”

This with a warmer tone—he’s forgiven me for that remark about his sister.

“Such a shame to see two eligible young men too busy gossiping to join the ladies for a dance,” an older woman says beside us—not exactly _to_ us, but so that we’ll hear.

Haytham looks affronted, but there’s already a smile spreading over my lips as I picture exactly what I’m about to do.

I step away from him, extending my hand like I’ve seen other men extending theirs to women all night, a clear offer.

“You heard,” I say. “Wouldn’t do to disappoint, now, would it?”

Haytham’s eyes widen.

“This is how we do things back home,” I say easily. “When there’s not enough girls to go around.”

There are more than enough girls to go around, but Haytham doesn’t _want_ to dance with them.

He takes my hand, though. “We will cause a stir,” he says, but I can see the way his lips twitch and his pale eyes sparkle at the thought.

“Oh aye,” I say cheerfully, leading him to the row of couples lining up for the next dance. “They’ll all have something to say about the bloody Colonial making a spectacle of himself. And with _Haytham Kenway_ of all people. Isn’t he meant to be so sensible?”

“Perhaps he’s tired of being sensible,” Haytham says, barely glancing along the row as the music starts. “Perhaps it’s about time he learned the value of making a spectacle of himself.”

I laugh, taking his hand and following along with the others. I’ve no idea how to dance—it’s not exactly part of Colonial Assassin training, and I’ve never really had the chance to dance like this, in neat little rows with everyone mostly sober. I’ve twirled girls—and boys, and men twice my age—around a sticky tavern floor or even the deck of a ship, but never quite like this.

I could get used to it.

If I hadn't seen him bounding along the rooftops like he was born for it last night, I would’ve known now that there was more to Haytham than it seemed. The way he moves is like a big cat, powerful but controlled, every step landing just where he means it to, every movement precise.

I understand the venom in some of the looks I’m getting, but I don’t care. Hardly my fault if Haytham’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.

“People _are_ staring,” Haytham says as the dance finishes, and undoubtedly, they are.

I grin at him. “Think we ought to go one more? Give them something to really stare at.”

Haytham hesitates, then nods his consent, and takes my hand again.


	5. Haytham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that "things Haytham has convinced himself of" and "reality" are, in this fic as in canon, not synonymous.

Washed, dressed down to breeches, shirt and banyan and eager to enjoy a very late supper with Shay in the parlour, I am stopped in my tracks at the sound of laughter coming from it.

My father’s, which I obviously recognise, and Shay’s, which I am only just coming to.

When I peer through the gap in the door, my heart sinks.

There is Shay, stripped down to nothing but his shirt and breeches, twirling my similarly disrobed father around the room as he had done to me mere hours ago, the two of them in gales of delighted laughter as they stumble together, Father losing his footing and careening into Shay’s body, excusing himself with a too-deep bow as he steps back.

_Playing_. They are playing, and I am excluded by virtue of being too slow to arrive.

Or perhaps by virtue of being _myself_ , too serious, older than my years, stiff and cold and unfriendly, with nothing of my father’s open warmth.

Of _course_ Shay would prefer him to me. It’s quite natural. I was a fool to think any differently.

I hesitate to interrupt, but the longer I hover by the door, the greater my chances of embarrassing discovery become.

I wait until they have bowed to each other, hands still clasped together, before slipping into the room, apparently heedless of what they’ve just been up to.

At least my father’s bed need not be cold tonight.

The pain of that thought takes me quite by surprise as he smiles in greeting, Shay beaming broadly, as if nothing is amiss.

And to _him_ , it isn’t. Why should my presence make any difference to the state of affairs?

“Haytham!” Father enthuses. “Shay was just giving me a rundown of your night. Sounds like you caused quite a stir.”

I do not want my father to have Shay, but I still feel as though I ought not ask him to forgo Shay’s company. After all, Shay himself has done me no wrong, and it is clear that _he_ would like to spend more time with my father.

No. I must simply live with the hurt of not having something I so desperately want and take some joy from both the object of my affections and my beloved father being happy.

“I believe we did,” I say, hoping nothing of my inner turmoil comes across in my voice. “But I believe Shay also has the papers you wanted.”

“He’s already handed them over,” Father says. “And he is to be commended for his efficiency. If I thought he’d have me as mentor, I’d snatch him away from Achilles in a heartbeat.”

Shay’s blush says everything there is to say on the matter. He would be _thrilled_ by this outcome, he’s practically said as much to me. Achilles does not value him.

“I’ve had the same thought,” I speak up before I can think better of it. Shay deserves the praise, I want him to have it. “We would value such a skilled operative here.”

Shay looks between the two of us, clearly unsure the offer is sincere.

“Especially one who can keep up with you,” Father adds.

Shay’s mouth falls open.

“Don’t answer right away,” Father says, putting him out of his misery. “Think on it. But there’s a place here for you, if you want it. A young man like you could go far here in London.”

“Thank you, sir,” Shay says, his voice catching, forgetting himself at the last moment.

Father smiles wryly. “Well, if I’m being demoted to _sir_ , I might have to—”

“Sorry,” Shay says bashfully, a blush racing along his stunning cheekbones. “ _Edward_. Thank you.”

“You’d stay here, of course, for as long as you wished,” Father goes on, clearly having thought this through. “Though obviously you’d be welcome to establish yourself elsewhere. Arrangements could be made for the transport of your ship—she’s too delicate to sail the Atlantic based on what you’ve told me, but she’s the perfect thing for the Mediterranean or even the channel, and I think we’ll have use for that very soon.”

Shay, at this point, might have been purring with pleasure if he was physically capable. “You’ve considered this, then?”

Father nods. “Aye, considered carefully. I like you, Shay, and I refuse to be shy about saying so.” He pauses to beam brightly at him, and I am reminded that my father is a handsome man, even now. And aside from a general sort of handsomeness there is also a _charisma_ that works so strongly in his favour.

I have none of it. People have described what _I_ have as a kind of dark draw, the air of mystery making me a point of interest until it is unravelled or deemed impenetrable.

This is perhaps more _interesting_ than my father, but it is, I have no doubt, less easily pleasurable.

Ten minutes ago, I would not have even considered standing half-dressed in the parlour dancing with a man I barely knew.

Now, I would give anything to have been in my father’s place, to have earned Shay’s regard so fully. But I can only observe what works, not anticipate it for myself. I will never be my father.

“Haytham?” Shay asks quietly, dragging my attention back to the present, to his utterly beguiling eyes, the soft curve of his lip which, I think with an unfortunate flush of heat, I would like to taste for myself.

“Yes?” I blink, stupid, at the pair of them. “Forgive me, I was miles away.”

“Would you like me to stay?” Shay asks.

Oh.

“Naturally,” I force out, swallowing down the thought of the agony of seeing him daily, having him live under the same roof and being forced always to keep my distance lest I betray myself and my stubborn, unwanted feelings.

I have known him only a little more than a day and already I feel the worse punishment would be to never see him again. Better to have him within arm’s reach than have him torn away from me, regardless of his inclination to return my affections.

Shay bats his eyelashes prettily, and I can only assume this is because one of them has gotten into his eye.

“Think about it,” Father repeats. “The two of you must be exhausted. I’ll call for supper.”

At the decided twinkle in my father’s eye, I wonder if he, too, has had time to discover the pleasure of watching Shay eat.

I wonder if I should deny myself it, retire now and spare the discomfort of wanting for something I cannot have.

But then Shay may not stay, and if he does not, then I would regret missing any moment of his freely-offered company.

“Supper would be thoroughly appreciated,” I say, signalling my intent to join them.

***

Shay is beautiful in the morning, utterly radiant as he leans back in his chair, replete, the sunlight warming his handsome face and highlighting the spectacular angles of it.

He is apparently satisfied and I bristle as I consider the assumed source of his apparent satisfaction, my currently-absent father. Lying in, I suppose, exhausted by a younger man.

“Something wrong with your coffee?” Shay asks, a note of genuine concern in his voice.

“No,” I say hurriedly, suddenly aware that I have been scowling into my cup. “No, not at all. Do you drink it?”

The change of subject will prevent Shay inquiring after my thoughts, I hope.

“Never tried it,” Shay says after a moment’s hesitation.

“Oh.”

The admission catches me quite by surprise, and I wonder if there are coffee houses in the Colonies, and my mind makes another leap to wondering if Shay has ever tasted chocolate.

Strange that these New World imports should be rare to the inhabitants there. I understand why, the mechanisms of trade and fortunes, but I have never considered the question in regards to one specific man before.

Would Shay share my taste for chocolate? This would be a pleasure I alone would think to share with him, my father having never developed an affinity for it.

I pass Shay my coffee cup without a second thought, mind already racing to the possibility of tasting Shay’s mouth after a cup of hot chocolate. Surely the greatest pleasure available to a mere mortal.

He sips from it, heedless of the way he puts his lips to the same place mine were seconds ago. He sips the dark liquid, nose wrinkling as his throat works, passing the cup back to me with urgency.

I take it, disappointed that this is not the wondrous discovery it might have been.

Well. There _is_ still chocolate.

I realise that regardless of where Shay spent the night, I do not feel defeated just yet. He seems a man with a curious mind—perhaps the notion of sampling both Kenway men’s charms will appeal to him?

“How do you _drink_ that?” he asks, sipping his unsweetened black tea.

“Ah, well, you see, I pour a little into my mouth from the cup, move it to the back of my throat by the action of my tongue, and then contract my throat so it flows down into my stomach. You may be familiar with the process.”

I smile as Shay’s mouth falls open, and under other circumstances I may have worried that I’d offended him, but there is laughter in his eyes.

He takes a breath to say something, but is interrupted by the conservatory door being opened.

My father steps through it, blinking in the morning light and then offering each of us broad smiles in turn.

Grudgingly, I enjoy my father’s good mood as he settles in his own place at the table. He looks refreshed and energetic, more so than I have seen him in some time, and I cannot begrudge him that.

Shay’s attention swings irreparably to Father, beaming brightly at him, the playful exchange of moments ago entirely forgotten.

I am a _fool_.

How could I have thought Shay might have any interest in me at all? Nothing I could do or say would be the equal of what my father _is_ —a man who attracts all who meet him, who never wants for a friend, who is listened to and respected and admired, especially by this beautiful young Assassin desperate for someone to approve of him.

My approval—complete though it is—simply does not carry the weight of my father’s, nor should it.

So I have very little to offer Shay that he might want. Nothing my father cannot _also_ offer him, in any case. Even if I somehow managed to coax him into my bed, I would be lying to myself if I thought for a moment I’d know what to do with him.

My imagination extends only as far as those desperate kisses I have seen exchanged in dark corners of taverns in the poorer end of town, perhaps of the touch of another’s hand where I might infrequently put my own. I know only _that_ I want, not _what_ I want. Not the particulars, in any case.

I expect, in a general sort of way, that when the moment comes I will have instinct and the knowledge of my own body and the desire to please my partner, and that will be enough.

“Haytham,” Father’s voice snaps me out of those most inappropriate for the breakfast table thoughts like the crack of a whip against a horse’s flank. “Did you have any particular plans for the day?”

“Uh. No,” I say, blinking at him. “No, nothing immediate.”

“Good. I want you to take Shay down to my tailor. Charming as that oilskin is, it won’t do you in London. On my account,” Father adds, this last part louder to drown out the objection Shay had just taken a breath to utter.

“I’m sure I could find my own way,” Shay says, and my heart rather sinks to think his first instinct is to avoid my company. Did I do something wrong yesterday evening? I had thought I’d handled myself well, been attentive to Shay’s needs, and provided a most appropriately subtle distraction while he disappeared into our target’s study.

If I never have to feign interest in the price of wool again, I will consider myself lucky.

But we worked _well_ together, and I’m sure he felt it too.

“I’ve no doubt you could,” Father says. “But you need to take a familiar face to him to get a coat you can _work_ in. And a suit, I think. No. Three,” Father concludes. “Take Haytham’s advice on colours, he knows more about what’s in fashion than I do. Oh! And have those water-damaged obis sent ahead, and if Mr. Croft can make something of them, have them made up into waistcoats. You’d look well in them.”

Shay blinks at Father, and then turns and blinks, equally dumbfounded, at me.

I have no answers or comfort or direction to offer him. It does not surprise me to see my father treating Shay like a spoiled pup, though I expect Shay cannot precisely be _spoiled_ , only treated with the kindness he is more than due. He would never come to expect it, he would always see this kind of favour as unusual and something to be profusely grateful for.

I try not to think about the manner in which he might be moved to show his gratitude.

“Thank you,” Shay eventually says, still clearly in shock. “But it’s too much, you can’t—”

“I can, and I shall,” Edward said. “I have one very fortunately married daughter who no longer needs spoiling by her father, and one son who cannot be spoiled. Indulge an old man, hmm?”

Ah, so he admits to the spoiling, then.

He is correct in that I cannot be spoiled—not, like Shay, because my gratitude is endless—but because my tastes are simple and I am not so easily bought.

Not that I think Shay is easily bought—quite the contrary—but he has not had a lifetime of being made a fuss over, of being made to feel as though he is terribly special and very well loved.

I have, and perhaps in that way I am impervious to spoiling because I am already spoilt.

Shay could use the spoiling, and I find myself inclined to compound it—if he will allow me.

“In any case,” I add my voice before Shay can argue again. “I also have some things to attend to along the way to Mr. Croft’s establishment, and I would be glad of the company.”

“All the better to make the ladies swoon,” Shay smiles mischievously into his teacup.

“Ah yes. My chief aim in life is to leave a trail of fainting women behind me,” I say, carrying on the joke that has now become a running theme between us.

We _do_ make a handsome pair, no one could deny that.

“That’s settled, then!” Father enthuses expansively. “I wouldn’t have half so much trouble convincing either of you to break into the palace.”

“That’d be fun,” Shay says with enthusiasm, draining the last of his tea and sitting back again.

Silently, in the privacy of my own mind, I agree.


	6. Shay

I’ve made a misstep and I’m not sure how to correct it.

Haytham is perfectly polite to me as we take the walk down to the tailor, pointing out things he thinks might be interesting, telling me about history and recent events and predictions he has for the future, none of it idle, all of it well-considered, and all of it in that delicious low voice I could listen to all day.

But there’s a distance between us now. He never offers me his arm, keeps his hands clasped behind his back as we walk, and I miss the easy intimacy we had yesterday evening, even as he explains to me about the plane trees.

Mr. Croft is an older man, older than Haytham’s father, with gnarled, bent fingers, but a kindly twinkle to his eyes and ruthless efficiency.

Haytham lets me know it’s okay for him to see the collection of weapons about my person, including the hidden blades, and I understand as Mr. Croft barely raises an eyebrow at them except to run a finger over the cracking in the leather and then call for a shop boy to bring beeswax.

He clearly doesn’t think much of my dress sense, but then it’s not so much sense as what I could get a hold of—sometimes right off some other poor soul’s washing line.

I’ve never been to a tailor, but I like the way it feels to be paid such attention.

Especially by Haytham, who considers me carefully as Mr. Croft drapes fabric samples over my shoulder. It’s more attention than I’ve had from him all day, and I like the way it makes my belly flutter as he reaches out to finger the fabric, thoughtful.

“Black would be rather too much for him, he’d look like a mortician,” Haytham decides. “But a charcoal would be lovely, something shot through with brown, to warm it, I think.”

Mr. Croft leafs through a neatly-organised box of fabrics and makes a small sound of triumph as he finds what he’s looking for.

“Perfect,” Haytham declares as soon as the fabric’s draped over me.

“He’ll need a pair of white silk breeches,” Haytham declares. “That fashion isn’t going anywhere soon.”

He doesn’t sound thrilled about that.

“I would so like him in green,” Haytham says thoughtfully, one elegant finger tapping his lips. “But would that be too ostentatious for you, Mr. Cormac? I realise not everyone is so comfortable with colour.”

I grin broadly at him. “Your father would approve of you dressing me up like a gentleman pirate,” I say.

Haytham snorts. “I suppose he would. Well, I think that settles that, if you really have no objections. And one of those silks we sent over earlier was stunning, the cream one, embroidered in sage. I think if enough of that can be rescued for a waistcoat, it would really be quite striking.”

I want to ask him more of what he’d like—I’d wear whatever made him happy—but I don’t know how without making it too obvious that it’s exactly what I’m doing.

Mr. Croft interrupts by laying a sample of green velvet over my shoulder, and then another in a deeper colour over the other one.

“Ah, an impossible choice,” Haytham says. “But I think we will opt for the darker—it won’t show wear quite so quickly.”

Haytham’s clothes are perfect, he looks every inch the gentleman, and while he stands here debating fabrics and dressing me up it’d be so easy to forget what he really is, even as the shop boy works beeswax into the bracers of my blades.

The thought makes my pulse jump. What must he be like under those clothes?Soft pale skin stretched over hard, lean muscles? Does he have scars, and where would they be? What would they feel like under my fingers?

Under my mouth?

I shake the thought aside, remembering his earlier coolness. Perhaps I overstepped yesterday, perhaps now that he’s had time to think he’s decided I’m not the right sort of person for a man like him.

It’d be a shame. I’d lain awake last night in my own bed, calculating the route to his room from mine, by the outside of the house. Not an easy climb—that’s likely intentional—but I could make it.

I could make it if the prospect of a welcoming Haytham was waiting for me.

I’m happy to let him make the rest of the decisions for me, trusting his judgement as he settles the details with Mr. Croft and then following him back out of the darkened back room of the tailor’s and into the light. The grey, smog-tinted light of London.

Could I call this place home? The offer of a position here is generous—too generous by half, just like everything the elder Kenway ever did—and I would have been a fool to turn it down, but it’s so far from any other place I’ve called home.

But then the thought comes to me again that, if Haytham was here, I could do it. I could make this place my home.

“Well, we’ve attended to business admirably,” Haytham says. “I think we ought to attend to pleasure next.”

I raise an eyebrow, unsure what he means, but the hint of a cryptic smile playing around that gorgeous mouth tells me I won’t get an answer by asking.

“Come along,” Haytham says, turning down the street with a dramatic swish of his cloak. No _wonder_ the girls faint after him, _I’d_ faint after him if I was any less desperate to make a good impression.

I follow.


	7. Haytham

Shay _delights_ in his hot chocolate, and if I watch him any longer I will not be fit for decent company. As it is, I find myself shifting in my seat, forced to spread my thighs a little further than is entirely elegant for my own comfort, glad of the fact that there is a table between us.

Shay’s clever pink tongue chases a drop of chocolate around his lips as he savours every tiny mouthful, and I am in serious danger of quite embarrassing myself.

The problem—one of the many problems currently facing me, at least—is that I cannot give him up. No matter how defeated I feel, how certain I am that he has made his choice, I do not want to stop _trying_.

I want him to adore me and I am quite certain I will not be satisfied until he does. I feel that in any possible universe, I would want him wholly and unwaveringly.

If there is such a thing as a soulmate, Shay, I think, is mine. I could hardly feel this intensely about anyone else.

Shay, oblivious to my racing thoughts, hums happily and sits back, taking in his surroundings.

He looks like a disreputable scoundrel among the fashionable crowd, but my presence is enough to ensure him access to any place he should be inclined to visit in London, dressed in whatever he likes.

I do not think this is a particular attraction to Shay, who likely does not covet the chance to be admitted into exclusive establishments for any reason at all.

The chocolate, though, that _is_ an attraction. He could just as easily have it made up at home, but there is something about stepping into welcoming surroundings out of the cold and fortifying oneself. Shay and I are both hardy men, untroubled by even the harshest of conditions, but not unmoved by comfort.

I am very glad to see that Shay is susceptible to at least _some_ comforts, since I am not sure how else I would win him over. Certainly not on strength of personality.

“This is wonderful,” he says, finally, as though he’s sharing a secret, clinging to his cup. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” I say, clasping my own cup in both hands. “Your presence gave me an excuse to indulge.”

“Pardon me for saying,” Shay murmurs. “But you don’t seem like the kind of man who indulges in much all that often.”

Shay is right, of course—I rarely allow myself any but the most everyday of pleasures for fear of growing soft—but I sense a note of something else in his tone. Not reproach, exactly—he would not dare, though we are for all intents perfect equals—but some subtle disapproval.

“I don’t mean to insult you,” Shay hastens to add when I do not immediately respond. “I just mean… you seem like you could afford to be kinder to yourself.”

“Ah,” I say, a strange combination of feelings settling over me. “You’ve been speaking to my father.”

Shay blinks at me. “Not about you,” he says, hesitates, and then corrects himself, “well, not about _this_ , anyway.”

So he _has_ been speaking to Father about me. Of course he has, it’s only natural that he should—certainly, Father has spoken to me about him, extolling his many and varied virtues in unabashed admiration.

It is my first instinct to bristle at what Shay says—it feels like a rebuke, or at very least a _correction_ —but I do not wish to do that. There is no malice in it—I’m not sure he has the capacity for malice.

The most I might be able to fault him for is being overly concerned with the personal affairs of a man who is not, actually, an intimate friend.

But then I suspect Shay makes intimate friends of nearly all he meets and does not see any wrong in, as he sees it, looking out for me.

And above all else, he is _right_ , and the fact that I am not prone to indulgence is one of my many faults, one I suspect that would discourage him from any interest in me most keenly.

“And just what _have_ you been discussing with my father about me?” I ask, artfully changing the subject and delighting in Shay’s blush.

“He says, umm.” Shay clears his throat. “He says you’re good with your sword.”

Shay very nearly _squeaks_ this, as though it is actually the euphemism it might be, but I cannot believe my father meant it in any other way but the most literal.

“Mine or anyone else’s,” I say.

Shay’s blush deepens, and I realise exactly what I’ve said.

“I’d be more than happy to demonstrate once we’re back home,” I add, trying to rescue the direction of the conversation but, I realise as the words pass my lips, only making it worse.

Shay’s eyes light up, and I wonder if I am only imagining his blush--perhaps it is merely a reaction to the warmth of the fire.

“I’d like that,” he says, sipping at his chocolate.

“Then I am at your service.”

***

Shay, for all the flattery of asking me to practice with him, is more than adequate with a sword in hand. He does not have the elegant technique of a man who has had the benefit of a tutor, but he has the experience and reflexes to make up for it—he is a worthy opponent, and I would not necessarily back myself in a real fight against him, as I suspect that were his life in danger he would be inclined to fight dirty.

He would be right, of course. Honour is meaningless to a dead opponent—and equally meaningless in the event of one’s own death.

Shay might well tear my throat out with his teeth if pushed to do so.

The thought is not nearly as horrifying as it should be, on account of it requiring me to imagine Shay’s mouth at my neck.

The momentary distraction is enough to give Shay an advantage, knocking my feet out from under me before I can avoid the sweep of his foot.

Shay holds me at the point of his blunted sword, sweat beading on his brow and triumph glowing on his face.

He is _quite_ magnificent.

“If you won’t yield, I’ll have to finish you,” he says gravely, though his smile rather ruins the effect.

“I will _never_ yield,” I say, tilting my head back to expose my throat more fully, mock-daring him.

Shay hums, then sets his sword down beside me. “I don’t think I could bring myself to do it,” he admits.

I watch him as he moves to kneel, only vaguely aware that he is looming over me as his charming face moves closer.

So busy am I focusing on Shay’s eyes that I entirely miss that he is moving until his lips are pressed against mine and I gasp in surprise.

Shay presses his advantage once more, thrusting that clever tongue alongside my own, and my insides quiver deliciously as a hot rush of heat washes around my belly.

I am helpless to respond, stunned by this sudden expression of lust, trying to force one or other of my limbs to do _something_ , to touch him at least, to show _some_ interest.

Shay’s tongue dips further into my mouth and I am finally able to do something, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him closer.

An undignified whimper scratches the back of my throat, but it is impossible to care with Shay’s warm body bearing down on me, with all the pleasure of him at my fingertips, waiting for me to reach out and take it.

“Shay,” I gasp. “Shay, I’ve never…”

The confession suddenly seems urgent—I must warn him of what to expect, that he is unlikely to draw the instant, easy satisfaction from me that he might like, that I will need to be taught and shown and moulded but that I am willing, so very willing to take instruction in this if only he’ll have me as his eager student.

“Never…?” Shay frowns down at me, eyes unfocused, brows nearly touching above the bridge of his nose.

“Done this,” I clarify, though I am not entirely certain it is the clearest I could be. “With anyone,” I add pointlessly—Shay is already working that out for himself, no doubt.

Shay’s eyes widen, instantly lucid. “Oh,” he says, inching away from me, looking down at my face, assessing.

“Oh,” he repeats.

And then he is climbing off me, and I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Forget I ever… I… I’ll go.”

He is already at the door before I can even consider regaining control of my tongue, and it has slammed closed behind him as I rasp out a _wait_ that was only loud enough for my own ears in any case.

My stomach sinks, uncomfortably close to nausea, and I force myself to swallow and swallow and swallow as I pick myself up off the floor, desperate neither to sob nor vomit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:D


	8. Shay

How could I have been such a fool?

Poor Haytham. He must’ve been terrified at me pouncing on him like that. I couldn’t imagine how I would’ve reacted if the same thing happened to me and I hadn’t been expecting it, I was probably lucky to have come out of it in one piece.

What must he think of me now? I should’ve been gentler with him. He’s never done this before, he deserves… playful kisses and long afternoons napping in the shade of a tree in the countryside, soft coaxing touches, one tiny, sweet step at a time until he’s ready.

And he deserves it from someone better than me. Someone who didn’t come to him in rags, ill-liked by his own Mentor and unsure of his place in the world.

Haytham deserves one of the neatly-groomed fashionable young men in that coffee house, soft and uncomplicated and _worthy_. Worthy of someone like him.

A knock on the window startles me—and I turn to see…

Edward. Perched outside.

He waves at me, and it takes that much to spur me into action, pulling the window up with difficulty and offering my hand to help him in.

“I’d bet you thought I couldn’t have done that anymore,” Edward says, grinning broadly.

I hadn’t, exactly, but I wouldn’t have thought he _could_ , either, if I’d thought of it at all.

Edward snorts, clapping me on the shoulder and turning to close the window behind him.

“Thought you might resist if I tried the door,” he says, moving to the fire and prodding at it with one of the irons by the side. It’d died down while I’d been…

Hiding…

In here, and I’d paid it no mind, but now that I'm aware of the fire, I'm also aware of the cold. A shudder runs through me at the sudden awareness, and I move to stand a little closer to the flickering flames myself.

“Resist?” I ask innocently, rubbing my hands together and then folding them under my arms.

“You were very much missed at dinner,” Edward says. “By Haytham especially. You’ve set him all adrift.”

Damn.

“It’s not entirely your fault,” Edward adds, kinder. “Haytham is devilishly clever in some ways and so utterly thick-headed in others that I sometimes wonder if there’s secretly two of him.”

I pause, letting those words wash over me.

Why isn’t he warning me off? Threatening me, even? Protective of his only son, unwilling to give him up to some poor Colonial who’ll never, ever be good enough for him?

“Sir, I—”

“Edward,” he corrects.

“Edward,” I repeat, and it doesn’t seem right, not right now. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll need to know exactly what it is you’re sorry _for_ before I decide whether or not to accept that apology,” Edward says.

“I overstepped,” I say. “Haytham isn’t… he deserves…”

“Ah,” Edward says. “Apology not accepted, then.”

I stare at him, surprised by how easy his tone is even as he refuses to let me make up for my mistakes.

“I’ll… I’ll just. Go, then,” I say. I’ll find somewhere else to stay tonight, and set about catching the first ship back to New York—or Boston, or _anywhere_ —tomorrow.

Anywhere away from here, where I’ve ruined the best thing I ever had by asking for too much.

“Well, now, that _would_ be disappointing, but you’re not a prisoner here,” Edward says. “I would accept an apology for breaking my son’s heart,” he adds.

“I never meant to do anything like that,” I say, and it’s true, and I know it _sounds_ true. I wouldn’t have hurt Haytham for anything.

He’s perfect.

“He’s perfect,” I say aloud. “And he doesn’t need my filthy paws all over him.”

“Perfect?” Edward raises an eyebrow. “My brooding, ill-tempered, high-handed, arrogant son, _perfect?_ ”

I nod.

“I’d say you could do with knowing him better, but I’m not sure it’d change your mind.”

“It wouldn’t,” I say.

I know it wouldn’t, I knew the moment I saw him. It started as awe and that hasn’t changed, I’m still in awe of him, but it’s different now.

No one else is like him. He’s beautiful and clever and there’s a goodness in his soul, a warmth that needs a little tending to, and I want to tend to it.

I could make Haytham the best man he’ll ever be, and he could do the same for me. _That_ makes him perfect.

“Then I wouldn’t have anyone _else’s_ filthy paws all over him if it were up to me,” Edward says, his tone still kind, but serious now, like a man taking his son aside to impart a life lesson. “Because you could love him,” he continues. “And that makes you nearly unique.”

I could love him. I’m halfway to it already—more than halfway. All I need to hear is that he wouldn't mind if I did.

“But he’s—“

“Confused, heartsick, and hiding in his study,” Edward interrupts. “Have you memorised the layout, or do I need to draw you a map?”


	9. Haytham

Less than ten minutes after I settle in my study, I wish I had chosen my bedroom to brood in—there, I could have hidden under the blankets until Shay did me the kindness of leaving, never to see him again.

Now, when I wish to retire, I will have to walk the hall—and thus raise my risk of running into him.

I don’t understand what I did wrong. At least, I understand that I have many faults—too many to mention—but one moment, Shay had seemed not to care.

The next, whatever fault he’d found with me was enough to drive him from the room.

Was my inexperience truly so unexpected and unattractive? I had understood that some men even sought it out, eager to be a lover’s first—secretly, I have always suspected this is to hide their own inadequacies.

Shocked and hurt as I am, I still cannot bring myself to believe that Shay has any such inadequacies to hide.

Perhaps he simply has no time to break in a lover, no patience for it, no interest in being the dutiful teacher to a man who really ought to know better by now.

But there has never been time. Or, truth be told, inclination. Any passing fancy I might have had has been just that—passing. And in my position, I cannot simply trust any stranger on the street.

I could never have a meaningful relationship with someone who wasn’t one of us. I know that as surely as I know the sun will rise in the east.

The sound of the window opening behind me puts me on full alert, my movements so fast they might well have seemed a blur to an outside observer, and I am in the carefully-crafted shadows before my would-be assailant has passed over the sill.

“Haytham,” a familiar voice says. “I can see you plain as day.”

Shay.

Of course he can. He has that precious second sight.

I huff, straightening myself in the shadows but not giving up their comfort just yet. Rushing into the light would be undignified, and as Shay says—he can see me.

The window grates as it closes, a deliberate shortcoming of the frame. One can never have too much warning.

The air in the room suddenly feels hot and close.

“Your father says you’re upset,” Shay says.

A flash of anger hits me unexpectedly—of _course_ they’ve been discussing me.

“Upset?” I ask, archly. “Surely not. What could I possibly have to be upset about?”

“Haytham,” Shay sighs, exasperated with me.

I hold my hurt close to my chest and brace to throw him out, no matter how much his mere presence does to soothe it.

I am not, actually, angry with Shay. I am grieving his loss.

Having him here, even for a few precious moments more, halts my grief in its tracks.

“I’d rather you didn’t leave,” I say before I can think better of it. “My father deserves the happiness you bring him, and I will not interfere any further. You could be a brother to me.”

Yes. Yes, I could love Shay that way, that safe way that will never come with the heartbreak, with the discomfort of simultaneously wanting to be known and understood and dreading it.

“Pardon?” Shay asks, frowning at me as I step out of the shadows tentatively, the loss of them almost as revealing, it feels, as the loss of my clothes would be.

“I realise now that you must have been aware of my jealousy,” I say, deciding that firstly, this must be true, and secondly, that I was jealous. Jealous of Shay, of his attention and affection and even his simple presence. I wanted all of those things to myself, selfish as that was.

Selfish and ridiculous. I have no claim on him.

He blinks at me, brow furrowed.

“Jealousy?”

“Over you!” I say. “Over your... your... _relationship_ with my father. I realise now that you must have acted as you did out of fear of... of my anger, my wrath even, if you didn’t... offer... yourself.”

The idea seems less and less reasonable as I go on, but it’s all the explanation I can come up with.

“Haytham,” Shay repeats, all his patience back in place now. He steps toward me, and then again, so there is barely a hand’s breadth between us.

“I’m not sleeping with your father,” he says, gentle. “And I won’t be, now that I know how you feel about it.”

“How I...” I swallow as Shay’s hand rises to my cheek. “Feel about it?”

Shay nods, and then pulls me in, inexorable, determined, but somehow gentle as a summer breeze, and kisses me.

Something inside me turns to molten need the moment his mouth closes over mine, and it is so easy to move with him, and then I find myself pinning him to the bookcase, holding him in place, noses brushing together as we break to draw breath.

Shay’s eyes are aflame, and I am quite certain no one else has ever looked at me like this, and I am _perfectly_ certain I do not want them to. Only Shay.

“You want me,” Shay says, as though he’s announcing he’s just been made king of a small, prosperous nation.

“Yes,” I agree, though I know I needn’t bother—Shay _knows_. It isn’t a question for him at all.

Inexplicably, it would seem that _he_ also wants _me_.

“And you… you want…” I begin, unsure what to say. “You don’t… mind?”

Shay blinks at me.

“That I’ve never…” I try to clarify, though the exact words required after _never_ do not quite come to me.

“Haytham,” Shay says, serious, his hand settling on my cheek. “You’re perfect just the way you are,” he continues. “I only thought… I thought you deserved better.”

The _idea_ is so ridiculous that all I can manage in response is a snort.

“In what _possible_ way,” I begin. “Could you be better than you are?”

“I could take my tea with milk and sugar,” Shay says meaningfully.

I understand what he’s getting at—we are not quite of the same world—but I am no better than he is. A lifetime of wealth and privilege does not make me _better_ than him, whatever others might believe.

I could not have lived Shay’s life. I’m not cut out for it.

Shay—tough, strong, clever, stubborn Shay—is perfect in every possible way. Perfect _to me_.

“I don’t care how you take your tea.”

“Haytham, I mean—”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I interrupt. “And if you are so desperate to be like me I will teach you everything you could ever possibly want to know about the finer points of etiquette, and we will have you conversant in Latin and Greek before year’s end, and care for your hands until they show no signs of work aside from pen calluses. But while I would happily support you in anything you might wish to turn your mind—or body—to, I would prefer you _weren’t_ like me. Because I’m afraid I’ve rather fallen in love with _you_.”

This last I hadn’t intended to say, but it escapes me nevertheless, and I do very much mean it.

I have fallen for Shay. Too quickly, much too quickly, but I think I was lost the moment I saw him.

If there is such a thing as a soulmate, he is mine.

Shay’s ensuing silence after my rash confession moves me to speak again.

“And a perfect copy of myself would make a poor substitute for—”

Shay cuts me off with an eager kiss, and then it is _my_ turn to be pinned against the other bookcase, his warm body pressing close, the chill of the night air evaporating from his clothes as they warm between us.

“I ought to have sulked in my bedroom,” I murmur between kisses, hand working eagerly under Shay’s waistcoat. I am still uncertain exactly what it is that I want, but contact with Shay’s bare skin is currently very high on the list.

Shay pauses, looking around the study, and then takes my hand.

“Maybe on that desk some other time,” he says, dragging me toward the door.

***

I would like to pretend my nervousness in undressing Shay is down to knowing just how many sharp points he keeps about his person, but I am already well aware of the location of all of them. No, my nervousness comes from not knowing what I’m doing and being very afraid that I will wear his patience through any moment.

My fingers slip embarrassingly on the buttons of his waistcoat, and Shay takes my trembling hand in both of his.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, looking down at our joined hands in dismay. I have taken too long, Shay has lost patience with me.

“Don’t be,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I’m honoured.”

“Honoured?” I ask, looking up to meet his gaze.

“You really _haven’t_ done this before, have you? Not even… fooled around with other boys at school or whatever it is you lot do.”

“I never went,” I say softly. “After Mother died, I think Father wanted to keep me close.”

“Makes two of us.” Shay links our fingers together. “Haytham, there’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t even have to—”

“I want to,” I interrupt. Nervous and uncertain as I may be, my dearest desire is still to offer Shay whatever pleasure he might be able to extract from me. Anything. Anything that would bring him happiness.

Shay raises my hand to his mouth and kisses each of my knuckles in turn, slow and soft and intimate. A strange urgency I am unaccustomed to builds in the pit of my stomach.

“Then _enjoy_ it. I don’t want you worrying,” he says.

“What _do_ you want?” I ask, since this suddenly seems like the best way to find out. Sometimes the simplest option is, after all, the most effective.

“Well.” Shay lets go of my hand and turns his attention to my body, running his hands up my chest over the heavy brocade of my waistcoat, pushing my banyan from my shoulders and leaving me exposed in shirt-sleeves.

That urgency in my belly flares up as I meet his eyes, aflame with intent.

“This is a good start,” he says, hands sliding back down, his fingers a hundred times more confident on my buttons than mine were on his.

I feel exposed and vulnerable as soon as my waistcoat falls open, but I barely have time to register the thought before Shay is pushing me back, back, back, until I have no choice but to sit on the edge of the bed—or fall.

The movement is less graceful than I might have liked, but Shay climbing elegantly into my lap makes up for the small affront to my ego.

His clever fingers pull the tails of my shirt out of my breeches, and then alight on bare skin that has not known the touch of another person in perhaps two decades.

The effect is instant and embarrassing in equal measures, but Shay only laughs and kisses me again, as though he hasn’t noticed—or as though, if he has, he is _pleased_ with me.

Perhaps self-control is not the most desirable quality, under the circumstances.

My question is answered, I think, as Shay squirms closer to me and I feel the hard line of his cock pressing against my belly through his breeches, shockingly erotic.

I can no longer wonder if this is what I truly want. The urge to touch and kiss and taste and _take_ is so strong that it feels foolish to fight it, and I doubt Shay appreciates my attempts to.

My father, I think, would be an easy, eager lover, and I have been so afraid of losing Shay, and I would do well to remember that I still might if I miss my footing here.

“If you think any harder, you’ll burst into flames,” Shay says, smiling at me with such warm indulgence that the worst of my anxieties are obliterated like shadows by sunlight.

“Are you certain you’re interested in putting up with me?” I ask wryly, taking comfort in the fact that Shay has neither moved nor made any attempt to.

“Oh, I think I’ll be well-rewarded,” Shay says, ducking his head to catch my lips again, pushing me back onto the mattress with practiced ease.

He distracts me with more kisses as he peels both of our clothes off, and soon we are each dressed down to our stockings and he sits back, gloriously naked, dusted with dark hair and etched out in shadow, as lean and powerful and beautiful under his clothes as a Greek marble.

I can only hope my body brings him a fraction as much pleasure as his brings me, just to look at.

Shay laughs as my fingers roam over delicate skin, dipping into grooves between muscles, tracing old scars and newer ones, not quite daring to touch where he is so obviously in want of it.

“It won’t bite,” he says meaningfully, nodding downward. “In case you're worried.”

This gentle teasing emboldens me, and before I make a conscious decision to do so, I find myself curling my fingers around the magnificent, steel-hard length of Shay’s stunning cock.

I have little to compare it with, but I am quite certain all the same that he is as uncommonly handsome here as he is everywhere else.

Shay is soft as velvet under my touch, my belly fluttering as he rolls his hips into my hand, seeking out more contact.

“You feel as good as I imagined,” Shay says, breathless, splaying his hands on my bare chest to steady himself, canting his hips forward so eventually I am moved to take us both in hand.

“You’ve imagined this?” I ask. Surely he’s hardly had _time_.

Shay nods, gasping with pleasure as our slick lengths slide against one another.

I am already half-senseless at the feel of him. This, _this_ , I decide, must be the very peak of pleasure.

“And so much more,” Shay laughs. “Haven’t stopped thinking about you since I set foot in your study.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever been more flattered.

“If only you could hear the noises you make drinking your chocolate,” Shay says. “It’s a wonder no one in that place has had you on the table.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks and ears again.

“Your imagination is somewhat more vivid than mine,” I gasp out, barely holding out against the feel of Shay’s skin, his nearness, the smell of smoke and brandy and the night air heady and wonderful.

“We’ll go for a wander tomorrow,” Shay promises, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed, lips deliciously parted as he catches his breath. “And I’ll point out all the people who’d like to do filthy things to you.”

I’m not certain I _want_ to know, but any time Shay is willing to spend with me is time I will not refuse.

I want to respond, but my mouth is suddenly occupied by Shay’s, and my free fingers are in his hair, and the relentless rush of pleasure is overwhelming.

I have trained for many things, but never for this, never for this constant onslaught of pleasure, never for the full feeling in my chest that makes me worry my heart might give out as I spend between us, sudden and sharp and too much, _far_ too much.

My mind is still adrift when Shay rolls away from me, panting as though he has run miles and miles.

I suspect, though I do not yet know, that between the two of us we could get up to some wonderfully pleasurable, athletic things.

Shay’s hand brushes against my own, and the faint niggle of anxiety in the pit of my stomach is quelled entirely.

“I want _you_ to do filthy things to me,” I say, voice thick, surprised at myself.

But Shay turns to look at me, his dark eyes twinkling in the low light of the banked fire, pretty features spread into the excited grin of a little boy up to mischief.

I cannot _wait_ to get up to more mischief with him.

“That’s good,” Shay says, still slightly breathless. “I’ve got a load of them in mind.”


	10. Shay

Haytham’s eyes glitter over the rim of his coffee cup as he looks up at me across the breakfast table, our feet tangled together under it, his hand brushing mine as we reach at the same time for the butter or too-sweet jam I can’t quite develop a taste for.

The door opening makes both of us jump, too caught up in each other to have been listening for Edward’s approach.

It’s not exactly being caught in the act, but I’ve no doubt Edward knows all that goes on under his roof in any case.

He reaches over me to take a slice of jammy toast off my plate, and I can’t come up with any other reaction than sheer gratitude.

I’ll have to let Haytham down gently about the jam. He wanted me to like it.

I like _him_ , and I’m very happy with my unsweetened tea and plain buttered toast, and that’s more than enough for me.

I doubt that’ll stop him trying to spoil me, though.

I doubt anything would stop either of them.

“Morning, gentlemen,” Edward says, settling in his place at the table, glancing at the newspaper left for him—the newspaper Haytham hasn’t touched, too busy in quiet conversation with me to read it.

There’s nothing urgent-looking on the front page, and if there’s anything elsewhere, Edward can catch it.

“Good morning,” I say cheerfully, running stockinged toes over Haytham’s ankle and making him jump again, looking at me with wide eyes.

“Morning, Father,” Haytham mumbles, pretending to be unusually interested in his coffee.

“I knew a woman, once,” Edward begins.

“Just the one?” Haytham asks without missing a beat. Not _entirely_ distracted, then.

I’ll work on that.

“Cheeky,” Edward says, grabbing the coffee pot for himself. “No, a woman in Kingston who read coffee grounds. And tea leaves. Palms and the like. Just wondering if you’re taking it up, Haytham.”

Haytham sets his coffee cup down too sharply. A _little_ distracted, at least.

I run my toes up the back of his calf, careful not to slip too far down in my own chair.

“Cook is very disappointed,” Edward continues. “On behalf of the girls who swoon after the two of you. But happy as long as you’re happy,” he says to Haytham. “And very eager to know what some of _your_ favourite things are, Shay. As you’re staying. I assume.”

Haytham’s gaze snaps to me, as though I haven’t kissed enough of his skin for him to be sure I won’t leave.

I’ll just have to do it all over again, until he knows in the marrow of his bones that I’m his. For as long as he wants me, I’m his.

“I’m staying,” I promise, satisfied that I was right about Edward not missing a thing that goes on in this house.

Nor Cook, but that’s to be expected.

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Haytham says softly, nudging my foot with his own slippered one.

“As am I,” Edward enthuses, helping himself to the jam. “Nice to have someone around here who can appreciate all my sailing stories without his eyes glazing over.”

Haytham snorts, and nudges my foot again, and leans over to pour me a second cup of tea as I finish my first one, even though he’s not drinking it himself.

I love him.

***

Haytham’s cloak whips out behind him as he runs ahead of me, and I can’t help thinking that he must look like a big black bat from the ground.

He’d laugh, if I told him.

He laughs all the time now, he’s got lines forming around the corners of his eyes from all the laughter, like his father.

“Keep up,” he calls back to me, the happiness in his voice ringing out in the pre-dawn air, silent as the grave apart from the click of our heels over the clay-tiled roofs. “We’ll be late.”

I still have no idea where we’re going.

But I run after him, focusing on keeping my footing and catching my breath between sprints, and soon the unmistakable smell of the Thames claws at the back of my throat.

Haytham barely seems to notice, and on we go, on and on and _on_ until we come to the place I’ve been avoiding for months, the big docks meant for ocean-going vessels, a forest of bare masts and rigging.

I miss my ship. I love Haytham, I’ve loved being with him here in this enormous city I might never see every corner of, but I miss my ship, I miss the open sea, I miss the creak of the seams and never quite being dry and Haytham’s been so generous showing me his world.

I want to show him mine.

“Let’s get a better view, shall we?” Haytham asks as the sun peeks over the horizon, lighting the sky up in citrine and amethyst.

I follow him, up the steeple of a church where we both perch on a ledge normal men couldn’t step on without breaking their necks, looking out toward the river mouth.

In the distance, sails.

 _Familiar_ sails.

I’d know that silhouette anywhere, even with just a couple of sails unfurled, gliding along toward us.

I blink, wondering if I’ve gone mad, but the shape’s still there when I look again.

The _Morrigan_.

Beside me, Haytham curls his fingers around the hand grasping the ledge. “Is that her?”

I nod silently, still in shock.

Edward was good as his word. It must’ve taken weeks to get her here, and careful arrangements. There’s no room for supplies on a little brig like the Morrigan, they could only have taken a tiny crew, they would have had to crawl up the coast and put into every port along the way, run over to Ireland, and then made the rest of the trip here.

But they’d _done_ it, and there she was.

“She’s beautiful,” Haytham says, and I know he doesn’t really know, doesn’t really have an informed opinion, but it matters to me that he’d say my ship was beautiful.

Meanwhile, tears prick at my eyes.

“Ah,” Haytham says after another moment. “I see I have competition.”

I laugh, but he’s right—if there’s anything in the world I love as much as him, it’s that sweet little ship gliding closer. I’m already itching to run to her, feel the deck under my feet, run my hand over the railings and map every scratch and bump, scramble up the shrouds and look out as far as the eye can see.

I want Haytham with me, though.

“She’s prettier than you are,” I say seriously. “But not nearly as much fun in bed.”

Even a few weeks ago that would’ve hurt Haytham, but now he chuckles, confident that I mean it. That it’s him I want, that I _like_ being in bed with him.

Or in his study. Or in the carriage, once, with the bruises to prove it.

He is _very_ pretty, but there’s nothing in the world quite like a handsome ship.

“Rather more difficult to take to bed, too, I should think,” he says. “I’d like to meet her.”

“You will,” I promise. “And she’ll take care of you like she does me.”

“Father wants me to go sailing with you,” Haytham adds. “If you’ll have me.”

I can’t help laughing at that. “Probably will have you, aye. Not much else for the captain to do,” I tease.

“You are incorrigible,” Haytham says as I rise, the urge to run for my ship too strong to resist any longer.

I grin up at him as I start the climb down. “But you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, as they say, is that! Thank you for coming along for the ride with me <3


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